"I'm aware," groaned Eddie.
"So... how much longer do you think it will be?"
"I have no idea! Get out, get out!"
The stage manager left.
"I am never drinking mineral water again," Eddie whispered, shaking, wiping his sweaty forehead. A buzzing noise sounded from his pants, which were crumpled around his ankles. He fished out his phone.
A new text. "Poor, poor Eddie. I'll have pity on you. Look behind the toilet, and you'll find the pill that will stop this. —R. P."
No. Oh, no.
He reached around behind the toilet, scrabbling with his fingers, and tugged on a tiny plastic bag taped to the porcelain. Inside was a single pill. An anti-diarrheal? An antidote? Or poison?
He was in such agony he didn't care. He ripped open the bag and swallowed the pill.
In another ten minutes, he was feeling well enough to clean himself up, wash his hands, and wobble back to the judges' table. Everyone in the room avoided looking straight at him. They knew, or suspected, the humiliating ordeal he'd been through.
He wasn't sure what he'd done to upset the poltergeist, or how it had managed to get a laxative into a sealed bottle of mineral water. But the incident had shaken him, physically and emotionally. For the rest of filming, he sat quietly, speaking only when necessary.
His only consolation was that the judges, unlike the contestants and staff, actually got to stay in a halfway decent hotel. When Eddie dragged himself back to his hotel room that night, worn to shreds, his last conscious thought was that by agreeing to judge this contest, he had perhaps made the worst decision of his entire dissatisfying life.
He woke up at three in the morning, and again at four. Finally, around five, he gave up, showered, and left his room, determined to find better coffee than the less-than-premium packets lying beside the one-cup coffee-maker in his room.
The hallway was oddly dim, one bulb flickering and another completely out. Strange.
He shuffled to the elevator, only to find a sign, scrawled in red marker—"Out of Order."
"What a craphole this place is," he muttered, following the sign for the stairs. As he reached for the handle of the stairway door, it slammed open, striking him in the forehead. Dazed and cursing, he crashed into the wall—and something black blew past him, disappearing down the shadowed hallway.
Eddie blinked, shaking his head, trying to clear his vision. What a rude, careless idiot. Hadn't even stopped to apologize.
He touched his throbbing forehead and looked at his fingers. No blood, but there would be a lump on his head, and a bruise. Great. At least he didn't have to be on TV today; it was the first day of coaching and classes for the contestants, and he had the entire day off to do as he liked. He was beginning to think that all he really wanted to do was hide out in his room.
Angrily he jerked the door open again and started down the steps. But when he got to the landing, he froze, and his legs turned watery.
A figure lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairway. He could see its lower half through the bars of the railing. A man, maybe—the shoes looked masculine. Dress shoes. Khaki pants.
He swore softly and repeatedly, inching down the steps toward the figure. As he rounded the corner of the staircase, he saw that the man was moving, speaking into a cellphone. Not dead then, thank goodness. Eddie gripped the railing, descending carefully in case a slippery step had caused the accident.
The man ended the call just as Eddie reached him.
"Hey," said Eddie gruffly. "You all right? Need some help?"
"I'm okay, more or less. I called an ambulance," said the man, pulling himself into a sitting position against the wall. "I passed out, or got knocked out when I fell. I'm not sure what happened, actually. I was coming downstairs, and then—then I woke up here. My wrist—" he groaned. "I think it's broken."
The gust of wind and the black shape flying past him burst into Eddie's mind. "Did you see anyone? Anything?"
"Come to think of it, there was something," said the man. "A shape, maybe a person, on the stairs. But it had a strange face. Pale and smooth, like a mask. And then it disappeared. No," he said, pressing a hand to his head. "I must have imagined it. You didn't see anyone, did you?"
Eddie hesitated. "No. Not really."
"What bad luck," the man said. "I just got into town last night—I'm supposed to coach a contestant for this singing competition in town—Voices Rising. You heard of it?"
"I'm one of the judges. Eddie Carver."
"No kidding." The man rested his head against the wall, his face pale. "I'd shake your hand, but—" He nodded at his injured right wrist. "You think they'll still let me coach? I can get this wrapped and be there later today."
"Listen," Eddie said, glancing around the dim stairway. "I wouldn't stick around town if I were you. This whole show has got a curse on it, or it's haunted, or something. Bad mojo. This injury is enough of an excuse to break your contract—I'd take it, if I were you."
"Really? You're serious?" The man winced. "But I could use the money."
"Trust me," said Eddie. "You'll be glad you didn't get involved. And who knows if they'll end up being able to pay us anyway?"
"There's a chance of that?" The man's eyebrows lifted.
"I'd say so." It was technically true. If the show's primary backer didn't get what he wanted, no one would be paid—at least not the full amount they'd signed on for. "Besides, you don't want another two months of this crappy hotel, do you? With the elevator problem and the slippery stairs and the masks—"
"I told you I imagined that." The man was eyeing Eddie nervously now, as if he doubted his sanity. "Listen, I—I can wait here till the ambulance comes, okay? Thanks for the warning. I think I'll take your advice and leave."
"Maybe a day or two in the hospital first," said Eddie. "That bump on your head looks bad."
"So does the bump on your head—wait, where did you get that?" The man's eyes widened. "What the heck is going on around here?"
"I wish I knew," mumbled Eddie, shoving through the stairway door. He walked down the first floor hall and stopped at the lobby desk.
"I need to know the closest place to get a decent cup of coffee," he told the attendant. "And there's a man in the stairwell who fell and hurt himself badly. He already called an ambulance, but you might want to check on him. And get that elevator fixed! Can't have your guests careening down the stairs in the pre-dawn hours."
"I'll check on him, sir," exclaimed the attendant. "But—what do you mean about the elevator?"
"The elevator," said Eddie, slowly and clearly, as if he were explaining to a toddler. "It's out of order."
The attendant pointed across the lobby, where a couple was rolling their suitcases out of the perfectly functional elevator.
"There's nothing wrong with our elevator, sir," said the attendant. "Nothing at all."
-7-
Mirrors
Kiyo sat with Diwali again at breakfast—or rather, Diwali sat with him, and so did a girl with a plump, pretty face and pale green eyes.
"I'm Phoebe," she said. "Isn't this so great? I can't wait to have voice lessons from a legit expert! I've got Bernice Antonetti. Who do you have?"
"Alec Johnson?" Kiyo had never heard of the man.
"Oh, he's good."
"So you know him?"
"Well, no." She flushed. "But I'm guessing everyone they hired is good at what they do, right?"
"Right." Kiyo dragged a fork through his scrambled eggs, trying to convince himself to take another bite. His stomach churned in protest. "Well, I'm going to go warm up before my coach gets here," he said, rising. "Where are you guys practicing? Are you fourth floor too?"
Diwali frowned. "No, man. We're all heading downstairs. There's like, a bunch of soundproof practice studios in the basement of this place. You'll be down there, with the rest of us."
"Oh." As he walked away from the table, Kiyo pulled out his phone and scrolled, searching for his assignment email. It
clearly said, "Fourth floor, Room 412."
He had some extra time. He could go check out Room 412, and if it looked empty or unlikely, he could always check with the office and find out where he was actually supposed to be.
He sprinted up the flights of stairs and paused at the door marked "4." The stairs went on, further up into the dormitory. Judging from what he'd seen of the building's exterior, there must be at least three more floors beyond this landing.
He pushed the fourth floor door open, slowly.
The light from the narrow, frosted window behind him sifted into the hallway, brightening a swath of the drab beige carpet. The walls were the same beige, mottled by moisture and human palms and the dirt of disuse. On and on the hallway stretched, into shadows that the light from the landing couldn't penetrate. The place smelled of age, and staleness, and disintegrating carpet fibers, and dust.
Kiyo glanced over his shoulder, down the steps. He should go back and talk to the woman in the front office about his practice room assignment. This didn't seem right.
Or maybe he was just early. Surely there were others assigned up here too. If he waited, they would come.
Meanwhile, he could find a light switch.
He strolled down the hall, faking a confidence he didn't feel in case anyone stepped out of the rooms on either side. When the landing door swung shut behind him with an echoing clunk, he jumped, pressing a hand to his stomach. How come Masayo inherited all the courage in the family? He'd give anything to have her titanium nerves.
About four doors down, he found a switch and flicked it. Bare white bulbs flared to life overhead, each one forming a stark white halo on the ceiling. They marched about halfway down the hall before yielding to darkness once again.
Number 412 stood at that junction of light and dark, half its peeling surface soaked in shadow. On the door, attached with blue tape, was a plain typed sign: "Contestant #14: Kiyo Darcy. Coach: Alec Johnson."
His hands unclenched and his shoulders relaxed. He was in the right place, after all.
The thick wood of the door drank the sound of his knock, so he knocked again, harder. No answer.
When he glanced to the right, something shifted in the gloomy hallway. His skin prickled and he swallowed, peering deeper, trying to dismantle the shadows. Again a shape moved, and he darted into the practice room, slamming the door behind him.
Idiot. Running away from a shadow.
Stupid old building. Why couldn't they have the singing competition in a modern auditorium, and put everyone up in a crisp, clean hotel instead of this janky joint?
"Calm down, Kiyoji, you coward," he hissed under his breath.
The room was simply furnished—narrow oak tables, a swivel stool, microphones, a keyboard, a student-level acoustic guitar, an electric guitar, and an amp. On the longest table stood a stereo CD player, headphones, portable speakers, a couple of tuning devices, and a charging hub with a few cables. A decent supply of equipment for practice.
Kiyo picked up an old-school metronome from the top of the keyboard and set a slow, ticking rhythm. He tapped his toe to the beat, breathing in and out evenly, feeling his tension wash away.
Bang!
He startled so hard he dropped the metronome.
"Sorry." Mel smirked at him, her shoulder propped against the doorframe. "Guess I kicked it open a little too hard."
"Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?" he snapped.
"Chill out, dude. I won't tell anyone you almost peed your pants." She pressed her hand briefly to the thick shield of black hair over the right side of her face. His fingers flexed, spurred by the urge to sweep that shock of hair back and throw aside the sunglasses so he could look into both of her eyes at once. She was pretty, from what he could see. But she was hiding that, and more. Why?
"Why are you here?" he said.
"So many questions."
His eyes trailed from her face to her long neck, then to the swell of her chest. She slouched deeper into the hoodie and he quickly refocused on her face, cursing himself inwardly for the slip-up.
"Um, so your voice coach had an accident," Mel said.
"What?"
"Yeah, he fell down the stairs of his hotel early this morning. Hit his head, broke his wrist. Terrible. He's gonna be out of commission for a while, so he's not sticking around town."
Sweat coated Kiyo's hands. "Oh man. Okay—so what do I do?"
"Catherine gave me a list of substitute coaches to try, so I'm gonna contact them. They're not all great, but what choice do we have, right? It's gotta be someone who's available on short notice."
"Doesn't that put me at a disadvantage against the others?"
She hitched her shoulders in a careless shrug. "Maybe. But this is basically a talent show, right? If you ain't got the talent to win it, a coach isn't gonna fix that. Okay, I'm off to find you a coach. You just—hang out and practice. Or go back to bed. I honestly don't care."
She disappeared, leaving the door partly ajar.
Kiyo swore, striding the length of the room and back again. Could this get any weirder? He was beginning to wish he'd never signed up for this contest in the first place.
He leaned on the table at the end of the room. Its surface was bare, except for a huge, ornate mirror, the creepy kind that Bloody Mary might crawl out of if he said her name three times. With all the strange vibes in this place, he wouldn't be surprised if she actually did.
He stared at himself, deep into his own eyes. "What are you doing, Kiyo? What the hell are you doing?"
Returning to his tiny bedroom, he lounged on the bed and watched crappy morning TV for an hour. He imagined all the other contestants downstairs in the basement, working on fresh songs with their coaches, polishing their skills, prepping for the first big performance episode.
If he wasn't going to have a decent coach, why stick around?
Pulling out his phone, he texted Masayo. "I think I might quit and go home."
He waited a full five minutes. Of course she wouldn't answer. She was busy doing important, dangerous things—things she believed in. He wasn't sure he could condone where she was stationed, or why. Masayo never asked him to approve her choices, but she did want him to accept them. He rubbed his thumb over the two hairline cracks in the phone screen, wishing she'd answer.
When she didn't, he rose from the bed and wandered downstairs again, through the empty common room where the catering staff had just finished cleaning up breakfast. He stood aside, holding one half of the double doors open to let them roll their carts and warmers through. Then he went to the office window where Mel had handed out room assignments last night. No one was there, so he couldn't tell anyone that he wanted to leave. Besides, he suspected that leaving wasn't as easy now, after those papers he had signed last night. He was one of the twenty official contestants for the show. They wanted him here.
But they should have had coaches on standby for emergencies. Even he knew that. He had to hope that Mel, off-beat though she was, would find him a decent coach from the substitute list. He got the feeling she liked him, and in spite of her quirks, he liked her too. She was interesting, anyway.
A sign for "Basement Studios" caught his eye, and he meandered toward it and descended the stairs. Another beige hallway—not as dank or deserted though. Brightly lit, with large windows of thick glass offering broad views of the practice rooms. He strolled the hall, peeking in at his fellow contestants.
Diwali was belting out a note so loud that Kiyo actually heard it, muffled, through the supposedly soundproof walls. Diwali's instructor looked overwhelmed and thrilled at the same time.
Harley, the girl with the caramel curls, appeared to be doing scales or runs with her coach, a glamorous woman with gigantic earrings.
Phoebe and her coach were doing odd twists and jitters, their lips puffed as if they were blowing through them. Some kind of warm-up, he guessed.
All along the hall it was the same story—everyone learning, warming up, showing their
skills—except for him.
But a guy could learn almost anything online, right? There were instructional videos by voice teachers and music teachers—Masayo had made him watch a couple clips about the right way to breathe while singing.
"To hell with this," he whispered angrily. "I'm gonna be my own dang voice coach."
He went back to creepy Room 412, looked up a vocal warm-up video, and started imitating the yawns, shoulder drops, and lip rolls the guy demonstrated. Kiyo felt silly doing it, but there wasn't anyone to see him making an idiot of himself. Eventually he felt less dumb, reassured by the instructor's casual tone, and he let himself go, sinking deep into a shoulder slump and lip roll combination, eyes closed, mind focused on the purring vocalization through his lips.
When he straightened again and opened his eyes, he looked right into the ancient mirror—and standing behind him was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her dark eyes, rimmed in thick lashes, arrested his instantly.
"Don't turn around," she said.
He froze. "Why not?"
"If you do, I'll leave and never come back." She took a swift, darting step backward, as if she might spring away and disappear.
"I wouldn't want that." Kiyo spoke soothingly, calmly, like a trainer might speak to a wild horse—or a tiger. At the same time, words ran through his head—ghost. Apparition. Yōkai. Yūrei.
He loved beauty—in music, in movies, in art—and this girl, this woman, was the most exquisite piece of art ever crafted. She wore a long violet dress—a gown, really—glimmering lavender over the curves of her shape and darkening to rich purple at the edges. Sharply cut collarbones, a long white neck, a delicate chin and nose, full lips the most kissable shade of mauve, and those brown eyes glimmering at him beneath glossy waves of rich dark hair that fell to her breasts.
"Aw, hell," he murmured. "You're a ghost, aren't you? Something about this mirror—" He laid a palm against it, and she surged forward a step.
"Stop!" Her voice was a knife-edge, threatening him, and he lowered his hand. "Do not touch the mirror."
The Monsters of Music Page 6